


Road to Redemption

by Archangel06



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23667661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel06/pseuds/Archangel06
Summary: Ferrante Aldobrandini, paladin of the Exarch Lliira, left the Temple of Beauty in Waterdeep to complete a quest in the real world before going back to take his final Oath.His mind, like all young paladins, is filled with glorious battles, chivalrous duels, and grand adventures in the epic war between Good and Evil.His grand quest will turn out to be much humbler, but no less important, both in size and in scope- saving one single, renegade drow.





	Road to Redemption

Sir Ferrante Aldobrandini was a paladin, no matter how young he was, and despite the fact that he hadn’t yet taken his final oath. All his (admittedly not long) life had been guided by his sense of justice and his honour. Even carnal desires and bodily needs had only ever been an afterthought, to be ignored while there were more pressing matters at hand, and there _always_ were more pressing matters at hand. He rarely experienced doubts. He had also never quite been a man prone to introspection, not used to stop to analyse his own feelings or needs: this probably was the main reason why he couldn’t understand and districate the doubts he was experiencing right now, while staring at the exhausted drow laying at the other side of the fire.

Ferrante had been wandering the world, seeking a quest to complete before returning back to the temple of Lliira to swear his final oath. He hadn’t yet decided what Oath he would choose, but he had grand visions of heroism and great deeds. Instead of great battles against hordes of monsters, of chivalrous acts and valorous deeds, he had found a drow.

Just one drow, asleep under a patch of bushes in the vast expanses of the Evermoor, a runaway from the drow city of Menzoberranzan: for some reason that not even Ferrante himself could explain, the paladin had decided to be his guide in the surface world instead of killing him on sight. For about a month they had travelled together, and for the life of him, Ferrante couldn’t say why the drow had not slipped away in the night or slit his throat. They had fought goblins and orcs together, and explored an abandoned dungeon filled with the failed experiments of a crazed wizard: Velthur (this was the drow’s name) had had a hundred or more occasions to stab him in the back, but he hadn’t.

With the same grim determination that pushed him forward in the pursuit of justice, the paladin set forth to understand why he had decided not to kill him.

Drows were evil. Everybody knew that. They worshiped a spider demoness who embodied in herself all the worst qualities of both spiders and demons. They were prone to acts of wanton cruelty. They raided the surface from time to time and traded in slaves. All this he knew. Then why, for the love of all that was holy, he couldn’t bring himself to impale the wicked creature on his sword while he slept, as he certainly deserved?

 _Well, that would have been dishonourable,_ he reasoned. He nodded, pleased with that answer. But then, why hadn’t he just challenged Velthur- _the drow!_ he reminded sternly to himself- to single duel after waking him up?

Well… it was clear that Velthur was weak. He was armed, sure, and probably dangerous- but he looked like he hadn’t eaten in a few days: the sun was doing a number on his skin, so unused to the fiery lash of the star, and his eyes were red and tearing constantly. He had looked so confused, so scared and in pain, trying desperately to find an escape, only to find none. The drow wanted to live. Ferrante had felt pity for that miserable creature, who seemed to know no joy, and against his better judgement, had put away his sword. He could not bring himself to kill him. He still remembered the expression of utter confusion on Velthur’s face, of guarded relief as the paladin went to his horse, and of absolute astonishment when he had come back with food and water.

It had felt like dealing with a wild animal. Velthur had eaten slowly, never taking his eyes away from the paladin sitting a few metres away, ready to bolt.

 _He wanted to live_ , thought Ferrante. _He deserved a chance- so far, he hasn’t done anything yet to prove me wrong._

The more he had observed the drow, the more curious he had become. The more he looked the more there was to see, from the snow- white hair, grimy with sweat and dust, to his black leather armour, which had some strange holes in it, as if the drow had ripped away something from it, maybe decorations, to the strangely tattered and frayed cloak. He was starting to be less and less anonymous, less and less a part of the faceless horde summarily labelled as “enemy”. Then, much to Ferrante’s surprise, the drow had talked- hesitantly, as if he had to think every word before saying it out loud, and with a strange accent. “I am Velthur Sel’rue” he had said, staring at him.

“You… you speak the trade tongue?” had blurted Ferrante, surprised.

“I speak. Not good good, but I speak.”

And so, they had started talking. Tentatively, slowly, but they had talked, and an uneasy truce had established between them. They had travelled and fought together, and their truce held. And held. Velthur seemed inclined to follow Ferrante’s lead most of the time, despite the fact that the paladin had to explain what he thought to be an excessive number of times to a nonplussed drow that outright murder and torture were not the solution to every problem.

“Kill him? Gods above Velthur, _no_! Why on earth would I want to kill him? Put that blasted poison away!”

“But he insults… insulted, you” had said Velthur, puzzled, with a phial of venom still in his hand. It had a sickly yellow colour.

“So what? His words cannot physically hurt me” had answered the paladin. _Oh great, he’s convinced that insults must be washed with blood._

“But if you not… don’t… punish him, he comes and kill you!” It was clear that for Velthur this was such an obviously logic thing to do, killing someone for not reacting at your insults, that he was actually surprised that Ferrante hadn’t come to that conclusion by himself.

Ferrante eyes had bugged out of their sockets at that. “Velthur, that’s… why? Why on earth would a drunkard come and try to kill me because I didn’t kill him because _he_ insulted me?”

“If you don’t, then he thinks you weak. And he kills you and takes your sword and… clank dress.” Velthur seemed exasperated at having to explain something that to him was so painfully obvious. Ferrante on his part was so shocked that he actually laughed. Clank dress. Had he really called his armour a “clank dress”? But he stopped when he saw the stormy expression of the drow, frustrated at not being taken seriously.

“Velthur… I appreciate your concern, really. But things don’t work like that here. That’s the most distorted logic I’ve ever seen.”

Velthur had looked thoroughly unconvinced, and hadn’t slept that night, keeping a silent vigil with his little crossbow trained on the door of their room, the bolts tips dipped in the most painfully lethal venom the drow owned.

After a month, Velthur didn’t seem to have quite grasped the concept of friendship yet: he seemed to think that Ferrante wanted him around as a kind of slave, and no amount of talking seemed to get through that. The paladin looked at the sleeping drow ( _why_ did he have to keep his eyes open??) feeling very frustrated. What was his ultimate goal? Redeeming the drow, teaching him morals? He didn’t have the philosophical training of priests; he couldn’t discuss the subtleties of moral or doctrine. For the most part, they felt like useless elucubrations that only distracted people from the truth: if it hurt someone, it was wrong. There, there it was! If only he could show that simple truth to Velthur, but how? Right now, it seemed a downright impossible task, the very definition of an exercise in futility. Velthur was some 120 years old, more than ten times older than the paladin himself was- how, just how could he undo 120 years of indoctrination, 120 years of being steeped in evil? How to explain the sheer joy that doing good brought to the heart? The only progress so far was that Velthur had accepted that insults were not to be washed with blood: and not because he truly understood the concept of mercy, but because Ferrante had forbidden it. It felt like grasping at straws, and yet Ferrante could not admit defeat.

“Just _what_ ” he said under his breath “am I supposed to do with you?” He kept replaying their previous arguments in his head, desperately searching for a way to break the twisted logic that seemed to guide Velthur. He also kept thinking about the night when Velthur had held vigil: as much as he really wanted to think that the drow did it out of, if not outright friendship, at least respect and camaraderie, he knew that it was way more likely that Velthur was merely convinced that his own life was in danger. Likely, he thought that by protecting the paladin, he was merely doing his own best interest by keeping alive someone who clearly had influence enough to prevent people from lynching him.

It was frustrating. But Ferrante knew that he would not give up. He didn’t maybe have the smarts to discuss theology and moral with the drow (why, WHY did Velthur had the mindset of a priest, the bastard? Always questioning everything, finding new, twisted answers to apparently unsolvable moral dilemmas and paradoxes, and asking difficult questions), but he had on his side his own conviction and his own devotion. He stubbornly clung to the only, admittedly weak, evidence of something good in the drow: he was never unnecessarily cruel, and he was never the first one to strike. He seemed to want to be left to his own devices, although he was always too ready to swiftly deliver retribution. Ferrante just needed to find a simple way to make him understand the simple truth that was at the core of Ferrante’s entire system of belief: if it hurts someone, then it’s wrong. It wasn’t until some two days later that Ferrante finally got his wish.

So far, Ferrante had not dared to get into big cities: too many temptations for the drow to resist. Criminal cartels would want the dangerous looking drow in their ranks, and Ferrante simply didn’t trust Velthur enough: better keeping him away from temptation until he could actively resist it. It thus was with some trepidation that he led Velthur into Boareskyr Bridge, a bustling, semi-permanent trade hub that had grown around Fort Tamal. Thanks to the presence of the fort, Boareskyr was often patrolled by paladins of Torm, and Ferrante devoutly prayed and hoped that they wouldn’t think that the drow had to be exterminated with no recourse. They could be rather _drastic_ in their measures, and this was why Ferrante preferred to follow Lliira, the goddess of joy.

They entered the small town unchallenged: thanks to the intense traffic of carts and travellers, they didn’t draw more than a few suspicious glances. Probably, with what it being only a semi-permanent settlement, the inhabitants weren’t too concerned about who came and went, as long as they didn’t disturb the peace. Ferrante allowed himself to breathe freely only when the innkeeper, despite shooting a concerned glance at them, didn’t object at their request of a room, nor at their request for food and beer. The common room of the tavern was currently almost empty: only a handful of people were in it. The most interesting was the bard, who was busy entertaining a small group of children with songs and magic tricks. He was handsome, with brown- reddish hair, a perfectly trimmed goatee and green eyes, and dressed equally splendidly, with an immaculate shirt with elaborate embroideries, form fitting leather leggings and high cuffed boots. At his side he had a rapier with an elaborate guard. The only other adult in the room was an elf woman, who was trying, and clearly failing, to concentrate on a ponderous tome. When the two companions entered, she gave them a cursory glance, got back to her book, and with a sudden startle looked back again, lips drawn in a snarl.

What until a few seconds ago had been a very relaxed atmosphere, suddenly became tense: the elf woman was frowning at the two of them, her hands slowly lifting from the table, almost certainly getting ready to fire a spell at the offending presence of the drow.

_Great. Just great, of course we had to meet an elf!_ Thought Ferrante, stepping smoothly in front of Velthur and lifting his shield, his hand hovering close to the hilt of his sword. He hoped he had broadcasted his intentions clearly enough- to get to this drow, you’ll have to get through _me_ , first.

He heard the click of the little crossbow being cocked behind his back.

“Velthur, _don’t_.” He couldn’t risk it- he infused that single, little word with a spell of Command: he didn’t like to use it, not one bit, but if Velthur let that bolt loose, it would be disastrous. “I will handle this.” He hoped that the spell had worked.

The bard, to his credit, acted with a quickness that denoted a sharp mind behind the beautiful face: he grabbed his lute and quickly started strumming, immediately distracting the children from the commotion. He added his well-trained voice to the music, singing in elvish: Ferrante had honestly no idea of what he was saying, but it seemed to have an effect on the elf, who lowered her hands, snapped her book closed, and sat rigid, her lips pressed.

Ferrante sighed and relaxed, lowering his shield. He gestured Velthur towards the table at the far end of the room from the elf and the bard, and after a few minutes, the innkeeper emerged from the kitchen, bearing a tray with food for them, none the wiser about the battle that had nearly exploded in his common room.

“Well, children, who wants to hear a story?” the bard was speaking the trade language again. The children clamoured, having completely forgotten the two newcomers. The bard smiled, and launched himself in the tale.

“Have you ever seen an ogre? They are big, and brutish, and immensely strong. Once upon a time, there was an ogre called Garg. When he grew up, he became the strongest ogre of the forest where he lived, and thus imposed himself on all the creatures that lived in it. He took whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, and he had no care in the world. He was the strongest, so he made the rules.

One day, a group of pinkskins, as he called them, came to the forest. They had a hard shell around them, but no matter: he squashed them all. He noticed that one of them had a very beautiful, strange club: it had two very sharp edges, and a handle with pretty stones set in it, and it shone brightly. He decided that he would take it and call it Sharpclub, and use it to become even stronger!

But he hadn’t expected one thing: Sharpclub was alive, and angry, and had started to hit him. Garg didn’t understand: Sharpclub didn’t move, didn’t even touch him, and yet he felt an incredible amount of pain. The thing was hitting his mind. And so, despite having been the strongest for many years, he realised that Sharpclub was too strong for him, and told her so much: “You boss. You stronger. You make rules.”

To him, Sharpclub orders didn’t make any sense at all. At first, she ordered him to leave the forest and she didn’t let him take what he wanted. She only allowed him to hunt, and he was not allowed to have fun with the food.

One evening, Garg perceived that Sharpclub was not angry with him anymore, but very curious. Sharpclub told him her name: Moonslicer, made by the shamans of the pinkskins to kill their enemies. Garg didn’t understand: he was a pinkskin enemy, so why didn’t Sharpclub kill him?

“What do you mean?” answered Moonslicer, when Garg questioned her.

“You are sharpclub.”

“I am a greatsword” interrupted Moonslicer.

“Pinkskin shamans make you to kill pinkskin enemies.”

During the tale, the tavern had gone very still. The children were absolutely captivated by the narration: the bard was even doing the different voices for Garg and Moonslicer. The only movement happened when the elf stood, quite suddenly, and stormed out of the common room. Ferrante gave a quick look at his companion, who was looking at the bard with a puzzled frown creasing his fine brow, his food forgotten on the table. That bard must have been really intelligent, decided the paladin. Without missing a beat, the man had calmed down the elf, and now had started to tell a morality fairy tale that fit the situation between him and Velthur to a t. Just how perceptive was he?

The more the story went on, the more focused on the bard Velthur became. He was completely captivated.

"I do not understand." Said Garg. "If I was strong, and I came to take these things, they would not give them to me. They would run, or fight."

"But you didn't come to take them," Moonslicer replied. "And that is what makes the difference. You have made the humans' homes safe. You have protected their merchants. You have rescued their animals. And now you have saved their lives. And because you gave and gave and did not take, they now want to give to you, freely. And as long as you do not wish to take, you will receive. By serving them, you are now freer than you ever were in the forest. Not because you are strong. But because you are a friend. They are your strength now, and you are theirs. This is what Good is."

And at last, my little friends, Garg understood.”

The narration concluded in a storm of clapping and cheers from the children.

“Now it’s time to go home, you little rascals. And tell your parents to come and see my spectacle tonight!” the bard shooed the children away, and very dramatically collapsed on a chair, fanning himself with one hand. Velthur was still staring at him, completely flabbergasted. No wonder, thought Ferrante: the drow had just received the second greatest shock of his life, a stranger jumping to his defence without any qualms or doubt.

And, an extremely effective, albeit simple, explanation of what good was.

And now, the bard was sauntering towards them, with what could only be defined as, and pardon my elvish, a shit eating grin.

“Gentlemen” he said with an extravagant bow. “I do beg your pardon for the behaviour of my esteemed elf companion- she is an extremely gifted mage, but alas, I am afraid that she can be quite… brash, when it comes to certain situations. I am absolutely certain that she would have regretted attacking you, and I am glad that I was able to make her see reason.”

Velthur stared, openmouthed, then shook himself. “Ah… uhm… well… thank you, I guess” he said, and then shut up, seemingly unable to find anything else to add.

“You have our gratitude, good bard, and may Lliira bless you for your kind heart” intervened immediately Ferrante, hoping to avoid any awkwardness. “Please do sit and enjoy a mug- we definitely owe you!”

The bard smiled, but shook his head. “As much as I’d love to share a mug with a paladin of Lliira, I’m afraid that right now my priority is going upstairs and calming down my friend. I will gladly accept your blessings, good paladin- we do serve the same cause after all.” The bard made an elaborate, elegant gesture with his right hand and seemed to show something to Ferrante, who smiled even more brightly. “Just one more thing- hopefully, I did not offend you with that children’s tale. I do not presume to know the situation between the two of you, and my tale was addressed more to my companion than to you.” With that, he bowed again, even more extravagantly, and departed, with the air of an actor leaving the stage.

After the bard had gone, Velthur had remained silent for a while, moving the food around on his plate. Ferrante left him to think: he was clearly upset, and there was no use in prodding him. He wondered what he would make of that morality tale.

They didn’t talk again until they went to their room.

“So… was that what you’ve been trying to teach me?” asked Velthur, suddenly. Ferrante didn’t need to ask what he meant.

“Well, yes. Didn’t do a great job at it, did I?” replied the paladin, jokingly. He was rewarded by a slight smile.

“I think… I think I… sort of see, what the story meant to say about friends being each other’s strength” he said, uncertainly. “If you do things for other people, they will know that you aren’t a danger, and they will not be a danger to you and do things for you, so you keep doing things for them…” Ferrante was ready to groan with frustration, thinking _Oh come on!! It’s not about having people doing stuff for you for Lliira’s sake!!_ – but the drow wasn’t finished.

“And then… as time goes on, everyone know that they can trust each other. And maybe you get to know these people, what they do, what they like, what they want, what’s their favourite food, and… why would you distrust someone who has always helped you, and that you know everything about?”

Ferrante smiled broadly, joyously. He was honestly stupefied that a simple children’s tale had given to him so much insight- but was it so surprising, after all? Children’s stories were simple for a reason, to give a base over which to build more elaborate structures of reasoning. They were told with love by parents to their children to give them bases for a future morale. Maybe that was exactly what the drow needed, a simple explanation fit for a child, from which to start. This was just a spark- a spark that he would have to nurture and protect, lest it die and be even more difficult to ignite again. With time, this spark could become a great fire indeed.

“But that still doesn’t answer one question” added Velthur, frowning again. “Why, Ferrante? Why going to such lengths? Why wouldn’t Moonslicer just kill Garg- why wouldn’t you just kill me? Why would that bard not let his wizard friend fry me with a spell? Why _bother_? I am a drow. Drows… we raid the surface. We take slaves. We worship a goddess that wants us to do all that and even worse, who actively encourages us to backstab everyone. I could have been a scout for a raiding party, for all you knew. And yet… here I am, the silver thing in the sky has gone through an entire cycle and I am alive.”

Ferrante took a moment to organize his thought before answering.

“That is indeed a very good question, Velthur. I won’t deny that I was tempted, so sorely tempted. How easy it would have been! You were there, defenceless, exhausted and weak. I could have killed you with one single stab, and then pat myself on the back for ridding the world of an evil drow. No one would have ever blamed me, not one bit. But then, what good would it do?” Ferrante sat on his bed, and looked very earnestly at the drow, who stood against the wall, with crossed arms. “I don’t know if you ever participated in any raid, and I don’t want to know. If I killed you, would it bring anyone you might have killed back from the dead? Would it undo any evil you might have committed? No. The only thing I would have accomplished would have been depriving you of the opportunity to change your life for the better. Very few souls are so corrupted that they have no hope for redemption, and I have at least to try.”

There it was, the answer he had been looking for. Without thinking, he had pronounced a truth that he felt deep into his heart. The question was… would Velthur see it?

“And I… don’t have a choice?” asked Velthur, quietly. “Do I have to do your bidding, pass on your side or die?”

“Velthur, Velthur, don’t you understand? You _still_ have a choice! Only you can choose what path you’ll follow. But actions have consequences! If you choose the path of evil, then yes, I will hunt you down and maybe kill you- but you still can choose. It’s a choice I will have to make many times, too!” Ferrante stood again, pacing agitatedly. It was important, nay, _vital_ , that he made himself clear. “A day might come where I have to choose between my life and someone else’s, or even worse, between the lives of people I love…”

“And what kind of choice is even that??” interrupted Velthur. “No one in their right mind would ever choose death!”

“It’s not an easy choice, true. But it is a choice nonetheless, and there are things worth dying for. Hopefully when the day comes, I will be strong enough to choose what is right, and not what is easy.”

“Am… am I worth dying for?” whispered Velthur, very quietly.

Ferrante didn’t hesitate. “You are, because I am convinced that in you there is the potential for great good. I have no love for you, Velthur. Not right now. But with time, you might become the kind of person that is worth dying for because of love, rather than for the greater good. After all, there are things way worse than death.”

Velthur’s answer to that statement actually surprised Ferrante.

“That” he said, in a very grim tone “is truer than you know.” 

That night, after the drow had retired into his bed, Ferrante didn’t quite want to sleep yet. He felt the need to think about the revelation he had had today- apparently, not only the drow was having some lifechanging moments.

 _Very few souls are so corrupted that they have no hope for redemption._ He liked that. Maybe it was just idealistic, but he liked it. Redemption. Reparation. Forgiveness. Another thought came unbidden to his mind- so sudden, that he was sure that Lliira had inspired it: maybe this whole month had been a test. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became: this whole month had been a test for him, to show what he was capable of doing and to have him discover what truly was the Oath that he would swear.

Most young paladins were full of dreams of glory and battle, exactly as he was. Luckily, very, _very_ few would swear an Oath of Vengeance- it was the kind of thing that was very hard to come back from. It was so extreme that Ferrante wasn’t sure that he’d agree to take it even in the direst of circumstances. Most swore an Oath of Heroism or Devotion, and happily go to the front lines, to inspire and fight honourably. But some… some would swear an Oath of Redemption, seeking to bring peace and understanding rather than violence. Fate or chance had brought Velthur to him: he had abandoned the infamous city of the drows and now he was lost, suspended between all he had known in his previous life and this whole new world that seemed to spin backward. Ferrante had to try and guide him, set the example, and hope that Velthur decided to follow.

He would swear the Oath of Redemption.

Sure, he would need to speak with his mentors, and they would minutely question him to make sure that he was undertaking this with true commitment. But he was sure.

And with that, he fell asleep, contented, knowing that he had passed his first test.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank the user u/wanderingbishop of reddit for the story of Garg and Moonslicer. and thanks to JK Rowling for the sentence "choosing what is right instead of what is easy". 
> 
> I don't know how long this story will be- at least another chapter, maybe two. the next chapter will be the continuation of the story, seen by Velthur's POW


End file.
